


watch your weight

by jugheadjones



Series: Merry Christmas, Baby! [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Breathplay, Food Fights, Food Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, literal food porn, pops has seen some shit, shenanagins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 22:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13063065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: There’s no bell over the door to Pop’s anymore. The only warning FP gets when someone enters is a cold, unexpected gust of winter air. FP glances up to see Fred Andrews entering the diner, stamping snow off of his boots and hooking his hands around his elbows to keep the heat in.an additional treat written for the Riverdale Holiday Exchange. bewareoftrips asked for fred/fp shenanagins, and that being my favourite prompt ever, i was so happy to oblige. that no one else has written about the two of them messing around while fp's in his pop's uniform yet is an atrocity.





	watch your weight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bewareoftrips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewareoftrips/gifts).



> this fic involves a lot of food and talks about weight and diets a bit so please skip over it if that's something you're sensitive to

There’s no bell over the door to Pop’s anymore. The only warning FP gets when someone enters is a cold, unexpected gust of winter air. The Christmas wreath that Pop had hung up bangs hard against the window as the door slams. FP shivers in his thin white uniform shirt and glances up to see Fred Andrews entering the diner, stamping snow off of his boots and hooking his hands around his elbows to keep the heat in. FP’s heart does an upward pitch. He anxiously adjusts his bowtie and spits out the damp toothpick he’d been chewing on for the past hour.

Fred catches his eye, looks shocked, and then delighted. FP smirks at him as Fred takes a seat at his usual stool at the counter. If anyone else had been using it, FP would have kicked them off. Fred’s been using that specific stool since the seventh grade.

“Let me guess,” says FP, polishing a glass in a false display of nonchalance and expertise. “Large peanut butter shake, double whipped cream, and double cherries.”

“If I was seventeen again, yes.” Fred’s eyes have turned up at the corners with laughter. His cheeks are pink from the cold. FP admires him, the healthy loveliness of his face. “How about small peanut butter shake, hold the whipped cream, and triple cherries.”

“Coming right up.” FP turns his back to him, picking up the basket of fries bound for table six. “As soon as I deliver these.”

There’s a spill at table six when he gets there, and FP heads for the mop cupboard once he’s set the fries down. When the floor’s been cleared, FP drags the mop and bucket away and sets it down against the wall. The next booth is waving him down for the bill, and FP hurries back to the register to get it for them.

“Busy,” observes Fred when FP passes by his stool.

“Yeah,” agrees FP. “Don’t know how Pop kept up with us all these years.”

“Take your time,” says Fred conversationally, opening a copy of the Register left on the counter. FP’s chest tingles. Fred coming in here for a milkshake in the middle of winter was deliberated, then. Fred was in no hurry.

FP mixes two strawberry shakes to go for the kids who had just come in, and one peanut butter for Fred. He has enough shake to fill a taller glass, so he makes Fred’s a large, topping all three off with hearty dollops of whipped cream. He tosses a handful of maraschino cherries on each one. Fred loves maraschino cherries.

“Here you are.” His face falls when he sees Fred notice the whipped cream. “Sorry, you said no whip, didn’t you?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Fred swiftly plucks one of the cherries off the top of the milkshake and pops it in his mouth. “You’re doing great.” 

FP smiles at the encouragement. He watches Fred stir the whipped cream with his straw before picking up the two strawberry shakes and handing them to the waiting customers. Glancing over at table two, recently vacated, he notices one of the kids had dropped the sugar shaker. FP heads back to the closet to get a dustpan for the worst of it.

Fred looks up and shoots him a wink as he’s scooping the sugar into the garbage, and FP’s heart beats a little faster. It’s been a long day, but the place is clearing out now: table six is the only occupied table. FP brushes his hands off and heads back toward the main counter, where Fred’s still working on his milkshake.

“How’s it tasting?” he asks. “Like you remember?”

“Better.” Two of the maraschino cherries have disappeared, but Fred’s saving the third: it’s bleeding syrup onto what’s left of the fluffy whipped cream. Fred picks it up by the stem and slowly sucks on it, keeping his eyes on FP’s face. FP sees the briefest flick of his tongue pass over his lips and feels the tiniest ache, way down under his apron.

Fred crunches the cherry and dips a finger in the whipped cream, keeping FP’s gaze as he slowly sucks the tip of his finger dry. FP narrows his eyes at him, and Fred smirks a little, trying to hide it by glancing back down at his newspaper and sipping innocuously from the straw. FP bumps the back of his stool on purpose as he passes by on the way to table six.

He makes the mistake of glancing back at Fred while he’s asking if anyone needs a to-go box and notices him very deliberately sucking each of his fingers clean, eyes trained carefully on the clock above the counter. FP shakes his head, picking up the empty plates and carrying them back to the counter.

“Keep teasing like that you’re going to get in trouble,” he says in a low voice as he works the register, tallying up the bill.

Fred puts on his best I-don’t-know-to-what-you-refer face and sucks the straw clean, laying it aside on the counter so that he can tip the glass up and sip from the rim. Grinning, FP reaches out and places two fingers below the other side of the glass, lifting it higher so that the liquid rushes toward Fred’s lips and he’s forced to swallow. One of Fred’s hands comes up to interrupt him, but FP pins his wrist down. He tilts the glass higher, watching Fred strain to follow it, his throat working to swallow without spilling.

When the glass is empty he lets Fred set it back down, feeling a little tickle of smugness. Fred has a dribble of chocolate at the corner of his mouth, and FP admires it before Fred quickly reaches up and wipes it off, stifling a polite burp with the back of his hand.

“You like watching me eat, don’t you?” asks Fred, so matter-of-factly that FP’s stomach locks.

“I like watching you do a lot of things,” he murmurs suggestively, hoping that the neon lighting is dim enough to disguise the dull heat he can feel rising in his cheeks.

Fred smiles and glances back down at his empty glass. “I think that table wants their bill.”

FP glances up. Table six is looking over at him. He heads over to them as Fred goes back to reading the paper, distributing four paper bills and clearing the empty fry basket.

He sets an ice cream dish down on the end of the counter opposite Fred. Fred glances at it and then goes back to his paper. Table six is still chatting, so he goes back to polishing glasses.

“Who’s sundae is that?” asks Fred.

“It was a mistake. If someone else comes in, I’ll give it to them.” Pop always used to let the two of them eat orders he had got wrong, or food people left behind by accident. FP has a feeling that in his case, Pop was bending the truth sometimes. FP had never had a lot of money. “If they don’t, I’ll trash it. Unless you want it.”

“I’m too full,” says Fred, but looks at it for a little while. The ice cream is already starting to soften under the lights. Fred hates wasting food. FP notices how quickly Fred glances back at his face. “That milkshake was delicious, by the way. My compliments to the chef.”

“Not my recipe.” FP’s a little embarrassed. Fred had noticed when he’d made him drink his milkshake the way he had. He probably thought this was another ploy along the same lines. Which it _was_. But he didn’t want Fred to think that.

Fred is eyeing up the sundae again. Hot fudge isn’t Fred’s favourite, but he hates seeing ice cream melt. “It’s melting,” he points out worriedly.

“You can eat it.”

Fred gives him the evil eye. A squint that says _I’m onto you_. FP can’t help but grin. “You eat it,” insists Fred cooly.

FP lifts his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “I guess it’ll just melt.”

Fred huffs and goes back to his paper. “I guess so. But you shouldn’t waste food like that.”

FP spends some time sweeping up behind the counter, gathering up all his chewed-on toothpicks. He knows now that both he and Fred are waiting for table six to leave.

“FP, please eat it,” Fred bugs him after a while. “It’s bothering me.”

“Oh, fine, I’ll trash it.” FP takes it slowly down from the counter and starts running the water in the sink. Fred looks monumentally disturbed. “I’ll just rinse the bowl out, and-”

“Wait,” says Fred when he’s about a millimetre from washing the dish out. FP congratulates himself for slapping that maraschino cherry on top. Fred’s eyes are glued to it like a little kid at a toy store window.

“Yes?”

“Can I just have the cherry?”

FP grins. He takes the cherry off and drops it in Fred’s empty milkshake glass, so that Fred fishes it out with his straw and swallows it.

“Thanks.”

“All right, I’m getting rid of the rest of it, though,” FP narrates, moving the bowl threateningly close to the water again. Fred looks pained, but doesn't say anything. “Here I go-”

“Okay, stop.” FP rescues the tilted sundae and sets it down immediately in front of him. Fred gives him the scowl of a lifetime. “You think you’re such a smart guy. I’m going to get you back for this.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Table six is finally getting their coats. FP heads over to clean up the mess they’d left under the table, scooping his four-dollar tip off the laminate and into his apron as he does so. Once the group is out the door into the cold it’ll be just him and Fred. FP glances over his shoulder to see if Fred’s eating the sundae.

He dallies by the table for a while, sweeping all the nooks and crannies of the booth, and then the booths around them. There’s no bell jingle to announce when table six finally troops out, but the temperature of the diner dips a few degrees, so he’s pretty sure they’re long gone. When he’s wiped all the tables and menus, he heads over to the door to flip the sign around to CLOSED. FP pulls down some of the open blinds and starts sweeping off the mat.

“Excuse me, you’re closing up while there are still customers in here,” speaks up Fred. His eyes are twinkling in the dim light. FP crosses the room back toward him, leaving the broom leaning up against the door. “I’m still trying to enjoy this delicious hot fudge sund- _mm”_

He breaks off when FP presses his mouth against his in a kiss. FP reaches down and holds both of Fred’s wrists, pinning him tightly down to the stool as his tongue pushes into Fred’s mouth, sucking on his top lip when Fred’s tongue slides against his own. The ice cream taste is still on his tongue, creamy and smooth. Fred strains forward when FP pulls back, leaning up and trying to follow him for another kiss, but FP places one finger firmly against Fred’s lips, stopping him in his tracks. Fred’s eyes are dark with lust.

“Finish your ice cream,” he orders.

Fred swivels the stool around obediently and picks up his spoon again. FP crosses behind the counter, taking his apron off over his head as he goes.

“Keep it on,” says Fred, his mouth full. “It’s cute.”

“It’s covered in fry grease,” says FP with a smirk. He turns around to face Fred, planting his hands on the counter on each side of Fred’s dish. He watches carefully until Fred’s scraped the bottom clean.

“How are you going to pay for that?” he asks.

“With kisses?” asks Fred hopefully. FP can’t help the fond smile that slips up over his face.

“Try again.”

“With sex?” asks Fred, softer, raising one eyebrow.

“Now you’re talking.”

Fred stands up from the stool, but FP grabs the spoon out of his dish and brandishes it across the counter at him. “There’s still chocolate sauce on this.”

“FP, you’re mean,” says Fred plaintively.

“Lick it.”

“Gross,” laughs Fred but leans over and takes the spoon obediently in his mouth, sucking it dry. FP walks around the counter and grabs Fred by the lapels of his flannel shirt, pushing him hard backward toward the booths as he slowly tugs the shirt backward off of Fred’s frame.

“You’re a bad boy, tricking me into eating all that ice cream,” says Fred as FP shoves him down in the booth. FP presses forward on his chest until he’s lying down with his head up against the window.

“Is this your sad attempt at sexy talk?” asks FP, shoving Fred’s t-shirt up to his armpits so he can start laying kisses down his chest and stomach.

“No, I’m just saying you shouldn’t have done it. I’m supposed to be watching my weight.”

“I’ll watch it for you,” murmurs FP huskily against his skin, pressing kisses to Fred’s hipbone. Fred groans like Jughead does when FP says something that embarrasses him.

“That was bad.”

“Shut up,” mumbles FP and nuzzles into the trail of hair below Fred’s navel. He’s kneeling on the diner floor, leaning forward into the booth. Fred plucks the paper hat off FP’s head and arranges it securely on his own.

“We should roleplay. You be the soda jerk, and I’ll be the kid who can’t pay off his tab.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing when there were customers in here.” FP nips at the waistband of Fred’s jeans, breathing hard over his groin. One of Fred’s hands finds the back of his hair, holding him in place, stroking the sore muscles of his neck. “ What do you call what we were up to at the counter, then?”

“Practice.” FP tears the zipper of his blue jeans down, and Fred shivers. FP works Fred’s jeans and underwear off his hips, tugging him forward a bit on the vinyl as he does. Fred gasps as FP brings his mouth forward and licks a stripe up the underside of his cock. “Go slow, okay? I’m full.”

“I like you full,” he says, glancing up at his friend.

Fred smiles, laugh lines turning up around the corners of his eyes. “Yes, I’m learning this about you.” He cards a hand through FP’s hair. “They didn’t feed you well enough in prison?”

“Not really,”

“Poor baby,” says Fred with sincerity. With anyone else it would have been a jab. In Fred’s voice it is all love and all warmth. FP wants to be his baby. For tonight, for every night. Be loved on like this. FP reaches up and slides Fred’s jeans and underwear lower down his legs, fingers curling against the soft warmth of Fred’s skin.

“Can we put the jukebox on?” asks Fred.

FP grins and places a hot kiss to his pubic hair. “What do you want to hear?”

“Something do-wop-y. Or some Christmas music.”

FP stands up slowly, trailing his fingers down along the softness of Fred’s thighs, knees protesting as he gets up off the linoleum. He turns to the jukebox. “You’re going to get off to Christmas music?”

“You bet your boots I am.”

FP laughs, flipping through the jukebox selections. “You’ve got Run Run Rudolph, The Most Wonderful Time of the Year, or Suzy Snowflake.”

“No Bruce?”

“No Bruce, baby.” There’s a whole page of non-Christmas related Bruce Springsteen selections, but FP doesn’t mention it.

“The second one, then.”

FP laughs and punches the keys. The opening of the Andy Williams tune pipes up into the room, and he laughs harder. “Tis the season.”

Fred grins at the soiled knees of FP’s uniform when he returns. “Guess I know how well you mopped the floor.”

“Shut up.” FP gets back down on his knees, gripping Fred tightly by the hips to keep him in place. He scoops him up off the vinyl of the booth and readjusts him, tugging Fred closer toward him.

“Someone’s not in the holiday spir-” Fred breaks off when FP takes him in his mouth again, one of his hands seizing tight to a thick fistful of FP’s hair, gasping in surprise. The gasp is light and beautiful in the air above his head. “ _Oh,”_ sighs Fred. “Oh, _yeah_.”

He can hear Fred breathing hard as he starts sucking him off, the little laboured noises amplified by the tight space of the booth, and it makes chills erupt up and down his back, a warm knot settling hot and tight in his groin. The shop might be closed but they’re still in public, and the throbbing in between his legs is rewarding him for it. FP _aches_.

Fred’s loud at the best of times, but FP can tell he’s trying to be quiet as he builds up to a rhythm, bobbing his head to take Fred further back in his throat. Fred’s abortive attempts at keeping his noises in check makes something hot and thick curl up in his stomach, the pressure building in the front of his uniform pants until it’s almost unbearable. Fred cries out and curls his fingers into the vinyl of the booth, tearing into the seams of the fabric. The noises Fred makes are heaven. FP’s ears are ringing.

“F-” he gasps finally, fingers fastened for dear life in FP’s hair, “I’m close.”

FP keeps up the rhythm, lapping his tongue over the head of Fred’s cock. One hand slides down inside the front of his pants to tease himself to full hardness. Fred cries out softly and comes down his throat, his back arching beautifully up off the seat of the booth as he does. FP sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand.

“Wow,” says Fred thickly, clutching the side of the booth so that he can sit up. The stupid white hat is still on his head, his eyes shiny and unfocused. In a sudden burst of movement he reaches down, fastens two fists in the front of FP’s uniform shirt, pulls him up to his feet as he stands and kisses him hard on the mouth. Fred turns them around with both of his hands still clutching FP’s shirt and then sinks slowly down to his knees, unbuttoning the fly of FP’s uniform slacks. FP’s skin tingles. He’s not used to this. There’s no reciprocity in the prison showers.

“Let’s go behind the counter,” says FP, wanting a change of scenery.

Fred doesn’t have to be told twice. Once behind the cash, he drops quickly to his knees and yanks down FP’s pants. He takes his time with his underwear, breathing warm over the crotch and tangling his fingers in the elastic hem. FP moans softly when Fred finally puts his mouth on him, his eyes almost welling up from the intensity of feeling. He loves Fred’s mouth more than anything. FP hasn’t felt like this in a long time.

Fastening one hand in Fred’s hair, he’s too distracted by the sensation of Fred’s tongue on his skin to pay attention to the chill of cold air that washes over him, or the smack of the broom he’d left propped against the door handle hitting the floor. When he glances over and sees Pop Tate standing in the doorway he nearly has a fucking heart attack.

“Shit,” whispers FP to no one. Fred keeps sucking him off. Pop Tate is looking curiously at him, clapping snow off of his gloves, and FP realizes he can’t see anything below his waist. Blood rushes into his face.

“FP?” asks Pop. “What’s going on?”

“Pop!” FP almost yells, reaching down and smacking Fred hard where he’s hidden below the counter. Fred doesn’t stop immediately, and he pinches Fred’s neck to get him to quit it. “Hi,” he says anxiously to the former owner. “ _H-_ How are you?”

To FP’s surprise, Fred doesn’t immediately pull away. Instead, he seems to go at it even more furiously, one hand wrapping gently around the back of FP’s kneecap to keep him anchored there. His tongue laps at the underside of FP’s cock, and FP shudders involuntarily.

Pop frowns at him from where he stands in the doorway, looking like he knows something’s up, but can’t put his finger on it. “What’s going on?” he repeats, and FP feels sweat break out on the back of his neck.

“I- _oh- fuck_ \- what do you mean?” asks FP hurriedly, kicking out with his foot and trying harder to get Fred to quit it. To no avail. Fred bobs his head, the white hat shifting precariously over his left ear, and takes FP deeper in his throat. FP stifles a gasp.

“Everything all right?”

“ _Ff-_ Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” Fred’s flannel shirt is still lying in one of the booths. FP prays that Pop doesn’t look at it.

“Well, I was just driving by and I saw that we were closed.” Pop takes a step into the diner and FP’s throat clenches up. He swats harder at the back of Fred’s head, but Fred doesn’t let up. “What happened?”

“ _Fuck_ \- ah - Slow night.” FP’s mouth is moving of its own accord. His head has gone delightfully floaty and fuzzy as Fred’s tongue works his cock, stars bursting behind his eyes. “There were- ah - a couple spills and I was mopping up.” He pauses for breath, trying to disguise how hard he’s breathing. “I- uh-didn’t want anyone to come in.”

This was the flimsiest excuse he’d ever managed for anything, but Pop doesn’t comment. “Are you alright, FP?”

“Fine! Just- allergies acting up.” His eyes are watering. “That type of year, you know.”

“It’s December.”

“What?” asks FP breathlessly. “Really?”

“Where’s your hat?” asks Pop.

“Uhh..” FP reaches down and plucks it off Fred’s head. “Right here.” He adjusts it back over his hair. Pop looks confused, and glances at the mop and bucket in the corner. He frowns.

“What spilled?”

“Vomit,” says FP quickly. He’s breathing harder and harder, trying and failing to keep it under control. “One of the kids puked on the floor.”

Pop looks concerned. “Who?”

FP chokes and stomps on Fred’s knee. “Archie Andrews.”

Fred makes a noise of dissent low in his throat around FP’s cock, and FP coughs quickly to distract from the sound, stomping on Fred’s knee again. His eyes are watering and he knows his face is bright red.

“Is he all right?”

“Huh? Oh.” It’s getting harder and harder to see. FP knows he can’t keep it together much longer. His pulse his racing so high he thinks he’s going to pass out. “Yeah. His dad came and got him.”

“Well, all right.” To FP’s incredible relief, Pop glances at his watch. “Feel free to keep it shut up till morning. That’s quite a storm. I’ll be back in at four.”

“Goodbye!” calls FP, with a bit more hearty gusto than necessary. Fred’s rhythm has just hit a sweet spot in him and he’s riding a wave of euphoria that blanks everything out from his mind. Pop gives him a strange look, but tightens his scarf and leaves. As soon as the door clatters shut behind him, FP throws his head back and comes all at once, shuddering as he does. He leans back against the cash register, gasping for breath as Fred swallows.

FP looks down at him. Fred is very shyly wiping his mouth with his fingers, eyes glittering with a little bit of amusement. FP glances back up to make sure the coast is clear, and then down again into Fred’s face, his eyes narrowing into a furious glare.

“You idiot!” yells FP dropping on top of Fred and wrestling him to the floor, pummeling his side with light punches. His pants are still hanging open, his underwear down around his knees. The hat slides off his head and lands on the floor. “What the hell was that!”

“Payback!” yells Fred, laughing as FP hits him. “You sucked me off last year while I was on the phone with my divorce attorney!”“

FP yanks his underwear and pants back up and over himself with one hand, knees digging into Fred’s skin as he pins him to the ground. Fred’s trying to push the heels of his feet into the floor to get up, but FP holds him down. “I was about to lose my job, asshole!”

“Well, you didn’t, did you!”

“Oh, you- fucker!” FP smooths a spilled handful of pancake mix off one of the lower shelves into his palm and smacks it on Fred’s forehead, coating his hair in dust. “You got off on that, admit it! You have some weird fucking kinks, Fred Andrews!” He digs his fingers into Fred’s sides and tickles him.

“Oh, says you!” Fred’s squirming to get away, but FP’s holding him down too tightly. “Don’t think I wasn’t on to your little trick with the whipped cream!”

FP flushes. “Well, if you knew, why’d you eat it?”

Fred reaches back for another handful of pancake mix and tosses it at FP. “I was hungry!”

“That’s your fault!” grunts FP, grabbing Fred’s arm and trying to pin it away from him. The movement dislodges a bunch of boxes from another shelf, which tumble around them. A box of toothpicks bursts open and spills. FP grabs a whipped cream can and empties some onto Fred’s hair. “Who the hell starts a diet at Christmas!”

“I’m not dieting!”

“You know what I’m going to do to you?” asks FP, reaching over and cracking open the lid of a large yellow container Pop keeps beneath the counter. He reaches into it and brings out a dripping handful of whole maraschino cherries. “I’m going to make you eat every single one of these. The whole container. Then you’ll be sorry.”

“Do it,” says Fred. FP drops his sticky fistful above Fred’s head, and Fred tries anxiously to keep them all from rolling onto the floor as they bounce off his chest and neck. “Stop! You’re wasting them!”

FP leans in slightly, and Fred hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down toward his chest. With his free hand, he crushes a handful of cherries into FP’s face and FP yelps in surprise. The two of them scramble in the mess of boxes, Fred trying furiously to wrestle FP over.

“Fred, I’m going to kill you!” pants FP when Fred finally manages to flip him, climbing victoriously on top to straddle his hips.

“I’d like to see you try.” Fred is breathless from his victory, his throat and hair coated white with pancake mix and cream. FP grabs Fred tight around the middle and flips him over again, crushing most of the packages that had spilled onto the floor. He sees the flattened remains of a toasted hamburger bun he had dropped earlier and he crumples it above Fred’s face so that he’s showered in bread crumbs. Fred scrambles out from under him, scoops a few random handfuls of product up off the ground and beats it around the counter. He drops it all on one of the tables and whirls around, holding out a can of whipped cream like a firearm. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Try it.” FP weighs one of the soda guns in his hand, keeping it hidden below the counter. Fred simply rears back and hucks the entire can at his head like he’s throwing a baseball. FP ducks. The can of whipped cream hits the counter behind him and knocks a jar of chocolate chips onto the floor. FP grins as they rattle over his feet.

“Wrong move.”

Fred’s tearing into the bag of icing sugar he’d rescued from behind the counter, but FP’s already holding the nozzle of the soda gun out in front of him. Fred screams as the spray of soda hits him, throwing his hands up over his face. FP sprays him up and down for a good minute, aiming from his face to his crotch and back again.

“Had enough?” he asks, when Fred is still standing there with his face covered. Fred uncovers his face carefully. When he sees FP’s no longer pointing the gun at him he laughs and grabs a huge fistful of icing sugar.

“I’m just getting started.”

Fred charges at him then, throwing whole handfuls of icing sugar at FP. FP sprays him again and takes aim with another handful of cherries, sending red juice flowing up and down his arm. Fred fights back valiantly, but FP’s behind the counter and has more at his disposal. He tries a couple times to charge it and get FP out, but FP plants himself firm.

“Truce,” Fred gasps finally, on his hands and knees in the main part of the diner. FP peeks over the counter at him. “Truce. Truce. You win.” He gets slowly to his feet, hands tucked sheepishly behind himself like a kid. “Come out. I’m sorry.”

He must be the biggest idiot in the world, because FP falls for it. He gets out and approaches Fred. When he’s come close enough, Fred reaches lifts two huge handfuls of icing sugar out from behind him and shoves them down the back of FP’s shirt.

“FRED!”

Fred cackles and takes off running, but FP grabs his arm, squeezing tight and halting him in his tracks. “You are a bad, bad boy,” FP growls, backing Fred toward the wall until he’s pressed flush against it, his jack-o-lantern grin inches from FP’s lips. “You know what I want to do to you right now?”

Fred’s voice is husky, even with marshmallow sauce dripping in his eye. “Do tell.”

FP very gently rests both hands on each side of Fred’s neck in reply, both of them coated with flour. Squeezes. Fred’s eyes widen and his tongue darts out to moisten his lower lip. FP fights the urge to immediately trap that lip between his teeth. “I want to choke you until you learn your lesson.”

“I want you to do that to me too.”

“Tap me on the back if you need out,” says FP, nudging one knee up in between Fred’s legs. With the other hand he gently strokes the sides of Fred’s neck, enjoying the little shiver that he feels ripple through Fred’s body.

“Deal.” FP’s increasing the pressure around his windpipe, and Fred grins again, a flush breaking out on his cheeks. One of his teeth is stained red from the cherry juice. FP leans in and presses a kiss to his lips, pushing his tongue inside and trying to steal the rest of Fred’s oxygen. He moves one hand down to palm at the front of Fred’s jeans, readjusting the other so that he’s squeezing tighter on the sides of his throat. Fred tips his head back and expels some of his precious remaining air into FP’s mouth in a sigh. FP quivers.

Fred’s erection is pushing into his leg, already hard. Fred whimpers when FP skims his fingers over it, his head pushing hard back into the wall as FP’s hand sneaks down Fred’s stomach and into his jeans. FP presses needy, urgent kisses to Fred’s top lip and then the bottom one, turning his head this way and that as Fred’s face slowly fills with blood. Fred’s face and neck right now are his favourite shade of pink in the whole world. FP kisses him one more time, long and soft and slow and lazy, his hand working the incredible hardness inside his jeans. Fred’s making quiet gasping sounds, but his eyes are rolled up in bliss. FP skims a thumb over the top of Fred’s cock and Fred chokes into his mouth.

Fred’s face is cherry red now, the pure, deep colour of a brand new convertible. FP releases his throat and Fred sucks in a lungful of air, jerking back against the wall and coming immediately all over FP’s hand.

FP holds him close as he breathes, shivering with pleasure. There’s cherry stems stuck in Fred’s hair. When Fred’s skin has returned to a less violent shade of pink, FP walks nonchalantly over to the counter and picks up the cloth he’d been using to clean glasses, wiping his fingers clean. Fred follows him, stumbling a little, slumping back down into his position on the stool. Zips up his jeans.

“Forgot to cash out the till,” says FP casually, and starts pressing buttons. He glances at Fred, whose face has gone slightly mottled before beginning to return to its healthy colour. There’s still whipped cream in his eyebrows, and though he’d tried to be gentle, he can see the marks from his fingers wallpapered across Fred’s throat. “Is your neck okay?”

“Yeah,” says Fred, and gives him a breathless grin. FP reverently picks up the slightly squashed paper hat from behind the counter and playfully sets it back on his head.

Fred chuckles and FP leans in close. “I’ll kiss it better.”

Fred tilts his chin up, and FP begins to plant gentle kisses up and down his throat. He turns his attention back to the cash register, then, clearing a patch on the counter so he can lay out the money.

“We’ve made a mess.”

“We’ll clean it up.” Fred is already looking around the small space, strewn with pancake mix and crushed toothpicks. His eye lands on the closet where Pop keeps his cleaning supplies, and he makes an aborted gesture toward it. FP fastens a hand on his sweat-damp wrist to keep him down.

“ _I’ll_ clean it up. You sit there and look pretty.”

“I’m fine, FP,” says Fred with a tired, benevolent smile, but stays where he is on the stool. His voice is sex-raspy and hoarse. “You wouldn’t get me a glass of water, would you? And don’t you dare give me another milkshake.”

“Spoilsport,” teases FP, but fills a cup at the tap for him. He pops a curly straw in it and slides it across the counter. “For you, no charge.”

“Thank goodness,” rasps Fred and takes a sip. A stray maraschino cherry is sitting on the counter and he pops it onto his tongue, crunching the fruit so that a thin dribble of red spills over his bottom lip. He looks around at the food strewn all over the floor, wiping his lips self-consciously, and lifts the glass back to his mouth. “Dare I ask how much I owe you for all this?”

FP smirks, and reaches out to pass a thumb gently over one of the fingermarks on the side of his neck, blossoming now into a pink and violet bruise. “Baby,” he says softly, “I’ll cut you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” asks Fred.

“I’m going to make you another milkshake,” says FP with a smirk. “And I’m going to watch you finish it.”


End file.
